Martha You Dope - Ms Moonlight
by Fanfictionpreservation
Summary: Dogs aren't always man's best friend. By Ms. Moonlight not me
1. Martha You Dope

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather any stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will._

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_**Martha You Dope**_

**KA-WHAM!**

Paul startled awake, his heart thumping. _What the hell...?_

He lay in bed, looking around his familiar bedroom on Cavendish Avenue. Then suddenly,

**KA-BOOM! **Another loud roll of thunder burst out of the sky, rattling the pictures against the wall. Lightning lit up the room, casting weird shadows off the furniture. That explained what had woken him up at least. His hand fell onto the pillow on the other side of the bed and he sat up, confused. Hadn't there been a bird there with him? He picked up the pillow. A faint floral perfume rose from it. _Yep, Pat...Peg...Pam? What was her name? _He'd pulled her quite easily at The Scotch that night.

From downstairs he heard Martha whining, scared by the thunder and lightening. Or maybe the girl was downstairs. Paul turned to flip on the lamp, but nothing happened when he flicked the switch.

_Great, power's out_, he thought as he got out of bed. As he was about to go out the room, he realised he was naked, his preferred attire for night. _Better not scare the chick,_ he smiled, and grabbed a seldom-used pair of pajama pants off a hook in his rather large closet on the way out.

Out of habit, he tried flipping on the hallway light as well, reminded of the lack of electricity only when it failed to produce any light. Grousing slightly, he hop-walked down the hall to the stairway, pulling on the pants. Martha was barking now. "Quiet, girl!" Paul ordered. He didn't need the neighbors waking up and complaining, although he didn't know how anybody could sleep through this kind of storm, as another streak of lightening filled the dark house, followed by a crash of thunder. Now rain was pounding on the roof. _A rather cozy sound, if one is cuddled up in bed with a cute blonde_, Paul thought.

He stepped onto the stairs, holding onto the railing as he went. His foot came down on one of his old shoes, now one of Martha's chew-toys, lying half-on and half-off the fourth step. He slipped on it, teetering off-balance and windmilling his arms. He had time to blurt out, "Oh shit!" before tumbling down the steep stairway.

With the sickening realisation that he was falling completely out of control, Paul tried to protect his head from hitting the wooden steps. Instead, he felt a snap in his left leg and excruciating pain as his knee rebounded off a stair. Before he even had a chance to let out a yell, his head met one of the ornately carved large balusters with a resounding smack, and his body went limp as a ragdoll's, continuing its jarring journey down the stairs.

Paul spilled onto the tiled floor at the base of the stairway, landing facedown. Martha padded over to him, prodded his arm with a cold, wet nose, and sniffed at the fluid that was pooling around his head. Receiving no response, she whined, turned herself in a circle, and curled up next to her master.

Some hours later, Paul regained consciousness. He felt the cold tile under his cheek and something sticky binding his head to the floor. As he tried to lift it, he felt something warm and wet trickle down the side of his face. He tasted coppery saltiness. The room spun before his eyes, dim light was filtering in from the windows. Despite his dizzy spell, Paul was alert enough to figure it must be near dawn. A large shape loomed before him and snuffled. Squinting, Paul recognized Martha's comforting bulk. She snuffled at him again and whined.

Clearing his throat, Paul whispered to her, "Got to get outside, eh, luv?" His head pounded.

He started to roll over and stopped as a flash of fiery pain ignited through his left leg, causing him to nearly black out with its intensity. After waiting for his head to clear, he looked down to see his leg bent at an impossible right angle to the rest of his body. Gasping, he dropped his head and closed his eyes, willing himself to concentrate on anything else other than his shattered leg.

After lying motionless for a while, Paul realised he might be in a bit of trouble. His housekeeper, Rose, had scheduled to be off for the rest of the week. As far as he knew, no one would be coming by the house. He looked over to the left where the telephone sat on its table. It seemed a rugby field away to him.

"Did you hear that thunder last night?" George asked Ringo as they whiled away the time waiting for John and Paul to arrive at the studio.

"Hear it? It woke up Zak. We had a terrible time trying to get him back to sleep," Ringo replied with a yawn.

George smiled a crooked, wistful smile. He hoped he and Patty would be having babies soon. Ringo and Maureen seemed so happy with theirs. "How is the family, Ring?" he asked.

Ringo smiled proudly as he lit a cigarette, "Gear, really great!"

John came in, looking grumpy and half-asleep. "All right, let's get this fucking record recorded so I can go back to bed."

"Paul's not here yet," George said, getting up off his stool and putting down the guitar he'd been playing around with.

"Bloody Macca," John grumbled. "He lives nearly next door, you'd think he'd be the first one here."

"He usually is," Ringo said.

They sat looking at each other for a bit. John glanced at the clock on the wall. It was already 5:30 in the afternoon, they had all agreed to 4:30. "That's it, I'm going after the bugger," he said angrily, heading toward the door.

"Uh, we'll just get a bite to eat," Ringo said. "Unless you want us to come along," he added reluctantly because of John's foul mood.

"No, I'll drag him back by the balls if I have to," John replied savagely as he left.

George and Ringo looked at each other. "Paul's in the shithouse this time," George said. "Hope he's got a good reason for not showing up."

Martha pulled on Paul's pant leg, trying to encourage him to open the door for her. Unfortunately, it was his left leg she was tugging on. He shouted at the dog as stars spun before his eyes. An hour might've passed before he came to, because meanwhile desperate Martha had gone into the corner of the vestibule to do her duty.

Paul let out a deep breath. He was going to have to reach the telephone to get help. Gritting his teeth, he slowly sat up, sending a fresh rivulet of blood down his cheek. Carefully, he reached up and felt the goose egg on his temple. It was slick with blood, and a flap of skin hung loose. Queasily, he looked at his twisted leg again. The slightest movement caused tremendous pain. Casting his eyes around the hallway, Paul could find nothing to use as a splint.

Martha approached him timidly because of her accident, and wondered why her master was on the floor if he didn't want to play. Paul had a sudden inspiration. "Come here, girl," he said to Martha. Hesitantly, she walked closer to him. He grabbed her thick fur and, grimacing, lugged her around so she was facing the living room. Pointing, he told her, "Go get the bottle for me, girl."

A half-empty bottle of wine stood on the coffee table from the night before. If he could get his hands on that, at least he might be able to deaden the pain while he crawled to the phone. If only he could get Martha to understand what to do. She wasn't the brightest dog. Should've enrolled her in doggie school. Paul tried again. Gesturing at the table, he said, "Fetch, girl! Come on, you can do it!"

She perked up and ran to the sofa where she grabbed Paul's jacket in her teeth and dragged it back to him. If not doggie school, he should've at least taught her how to fetch. "Shit," Paul muttered. "Good try, Martha." and sat patting her dejectedly. Then idly rifling through his pockets, he discovered his cigarettes. At least he could have a calming smoke. He decided to hitch himself on his rear to the stairway so he could lean against the stairs. Clenching his jaw, Paul inched backwards using his good leg. It was going ok until his injured leg actually had to straighten out. Groaning with the pain as he heard some clicking noises, Paul continued to pull himself along. But when it came to the point of having to fully drag the weight of his foot by his broken leg, it was just too much. He felt suddenly extremely sick and light-headed. Passing out, his head once again hit the floor with an unpleasant thunk.

John stomped along the sidewalk, ignoring the gasps of recognition coming from the ragged group of female scruffs that hung out in front of Paul's house. Reaching through the gate, he hit the intercom button with more force than necessary to make it buzz inside the house. Waiting impatiently, tapping his foot on the ground, John turned and looked at the groupies. Many of them he either knew by name or face. This group of girls camped out at the studio or Paul's house on a nearly continual rotational basis.

"Alice," he said to a plump girl with dark, stringy hair. "Have you seen Paul lately?"

Alice looked thrilled to be singled out by John. "Aye, we saw him come home last night with a painted-up tramp hanging on his arm," she reported with a hint of disgust.

John growled and pushed the button again, this time leaving his finger on it. Looking up at the front entry, he could see no sign of Paul coming to the door or any evidence of life stirring inside the silent house.

"Arsehole," he muttered. Looking up at the top of the fence, he calculated the odds and started climbing.


	2. Martha You Dope, Part 2

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather any stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will._

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_**Martha You Dope, Part 2**_

John grumbled as he lunged over the top of the high, metal fence surrounding Paul's Cavendish house. With a garbled curse, he fell ungracefully into the hedge on the inside of the fence.

The apple scruffs outside the gate squealed and reached their hands through the bars imploringly.

"C'mon, John, open the gate and let us in too!"

For half a second John considered doing it, just because he was so browned off with Paul. But they would just get in the way and be a general nuisance while he was thrashing the bugger.

"Sorry, girls," he said, brushing off his pants. "This is something that requires privacy."

Ignoring their continued pleas and propositions, he walked up to the front porch and pounded on the door. "Come on, McCartney! What's the fucking idea, keeping us all waiting?" he shouted.

He could hear the sound of dog claws clicking on the tile in the entry. John peered into the narrow window on the side of the door, shading his eyes to see better into the rather dim interior of the house.

"**WOOF!"** A large hairy face suddenly appeared in front of his.

"Christ!" John shouted and leaped backwards. "Bloody stupid dog!"

His heart still beating wildly, John re-approached the glass. "Where's Paul, ya thick-headed ball of fur? Upstairs pounding away on some bird, hmm?"

Martha whined and tried to dig her way through the window. John attempted the door knob, only to find it locked tight. Paul had once shown him where the spare key was hidden, but, of course, details like that just didn't stick in his head. He slammed his fist on the door a few more times, which just made Martha start barking louder. Strange that he would go off and leave the damned mutt in the house alone, John thought with just a spark of concern surfacing in his mind. He walked around the side of the house, but the ground floor windows were too high up to see into and the neglected garden in back revealed nothing.

"Ah, hell," John muttered. "Forget it." He decided to go back to the studio and tell George and Ringo to just go home. He turned away and clambered back up and over the fence.

Martha howled as she watched John climbing back over the fence. She was thirsty and hungry. Dropping down from the window, she walked past Paul's prone body to the main floor's bath where she proceeded to slurp out of the loo.

Paul winced even before his eyes opened. Now there was a tender, sore area on the back of his head as well. But that was nothing compared the fiery pain that pulsated from his leg. "Oh hell," he croaked. He was incredibly thirsty. He lay still, listening to a rather peculiar sound coming from the bathroom. Turning his head, hoping that Pam or whatever the hell her name was had just been downstairs sleeping this entire time, he saw Martha emerge, licking water droplets from the fur around her mouth.

"Nooo," Paul groaned. Martha, worried by the sound her master was making, stood over him, dripping toilet water onto his face. "Gerroff, go away," Paul gestured furiously, which made his head throb and sent spikes of pain through his leg.

Suddenly he let out a snort. Then, with a bewildered Martha standing several feet away from him, Paul lay helplessly caught up in a hysterical laughing fit. Tears ran from his eyes and he struggled to take a deep breath and calm down. _This was just un-fucking-believable,_ he thought.

_Skeleton of famous Beatle found inside house, half-eaten by starving sheepdog._

The phone rang. Paul's heart leapt into his throat. He hoisted himself up on his elbows and stared at the phone. He started dragging himself backwards toward it, but had to stop as stars swirled before his eyes again. He'd never make it this way. Paul looked at Martha, who was gazing at him expectantly.

"Get the phone, girl. C'mon, bring Daddy the phone!" he encouraged.

Martha ruffed, eager to please, and bounded joyfully to the telephone stand. Jumping up on her hind legs, she grabbed the entire phone in her mouth, yanked it off the table and brought it back to Paul, the disconnected line trailing behind her.

"Damn dog, damn dog, damn dog," Paul muttered between clenched teeth. He was so infuriated that he temporarily forgot about his injuries and heaved himself up to swat at Martha. She backed away and Paul fell on his face. Still furious, he didn't even care about the pain radiating from his leg. He took the phone in one hand and dragged himself across the floor with the other, alternately cursing and moaning. However, after making headway of a few feet, he blacked out, his head once again thudding against the floor. This time, at least, he had made it to the living room rug, which might've helped to cushion the blow...just a bit.

George sighed and threw his greasy fish and chips wrapper towards the wastecan. It fell short and landed on the floor. Ringo got up, belched contentedly and picked up the paper, stuffing it in the trash along with his own.

"Not bad, that," he commented.

"Not if you like loads of lard," George replied, wiping his hands on his jeans with a frown.

"Wonder how John and Paul are doing," Ringo said, idling twirling his drumsticks between his fingers.

"Not well, apparently," George answered, seeing John stalking back through the studio door alone.

He strode into the room, glared at George and Ringo, and growled, "Couldn't find him. Might as well forget it today."

Ringo's eyebrows bunched. "That's not like our Paul. He's as near to a workaholic as I know when it comes to recording."

"Well, the scruffs saw him go in last night with a chick, and they didn't see him leave this morning." John replied.

"Perhaps she did him in," George suggested.

They laughed at the idea of any bird overwhelming Paul in the sexual arts. But John's smile died on his lips rather quickly.

"You have a point there, Ringo. Paul is a maniac for being in the studio," he said. "It bugs me that Martha was barking inside too. He doesn't leave that dog there alone."

They looked at each other, and finally George shrugged. "He didn't come to the door. What're we supposed to do? Break into the house just to find he's gone off somewhere?"

"Then he'd be all pissy with us for hurting his house," John added. "Let's see what tomorrow brings. I'm going home."

Ringo put his sticks down and got up. "Give me a ring if either of you hear from him, will you?"

George nodded and John said "Yeah."

George turned the lights off on the way out. It was nearly 8 pm-night was falling.


	3. Martha You Dope, Part 3

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather any stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will._

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_**Martha You Dope, Part 3 **_

_Cold, so cold..._

Paul woke, shivering. The only thing he had on was the pair of pajama pants he had hastily grabbed the night before. He tried to raise his head but found that in passing out again, he had reopened the gash on his head. Clotting blood was adhering him to the living room rug like some sort of gruesome glue. With a pained grunt, he pulled loose from the encrusted mess, a fuzz of carpet fibers now clinging to the gore on his face. He glanced toward the living room window and was surprised to find it was dark outside.

"Shit," he whispered. Martha was nowhere to be seen, but he knew she had to be in the house somewhere. No matter, she hadn't proven herself very helpful. Paul slowly rolled over, manually maneuvering his broken leg with his hands. He didn't dare look at it. It didn't seem to be causing the same amount of incredible pain every time he moved. Was that a bad sign? Or was he simply getting used to it? Gingerly sitting up, he considered his options. His jacket was lying on the floor by the bottom of the stairs where he had left it when the phone rang. The disconnected device lay next to him on the floor-the plug-in jack was nearly six yards away. The open bottle of wine on the table was closer.

He decided to try for the wine. He was so thirsty, it was better than nothing. Bracing himself mentally, he began to slide backwards on his rear again, pulling the telephone with him. After gaining several feet, he stopped and expelled the deep breath he had been holding.

"Augh!"

What kind of lapse of sanity had made him think his damn leg was feeling better?! It'd be a mercy to cut the whole burning, red-hot limb of agony off! Sweating now, he suddenly had a horrible thought that if he didn't get help soon, that's just what might have to happen.

Determined, he dragged himself along with his eyes screwed shut against the pain until he bumped into the coffee table with his back. Turning, he grabbed the bottle and started gulping it, the wine flowing down his throat and spreading a warm glow throughout his middle.

**"ARF?"**

Paul nearly choked, wine spraying from his mouth. Martha had reappeared and wanted to know what was going on by barking directly into his ear.

Paul coughed. "You can't have any," he said rather nastily. "Go drink out of the toilet again. I hope I forgot to flush it, you useless, lazy beast."

She whined and sat down next to him, on top the telephone, gazing at him sadly through all her thick fur. Paul glared back until finally, he couldn't help but laugh. "What am I going to do with you?" he asked, grabbing her under the chin where she loved to be scratched. "Martha my dear."

Not having eaten for nearly twenty-four hours, the wine started going to his head fairly quickly the more he drank. But it felt good, filling and warming his belly, pleasantly numbing his senses. All too soon, one last swallow remained. He held it aloft in the near darkness, whispered "le'chayim," and drank it down. To complete the self-created ceremony, he threw the bottle against the wall and belched.

As John was about to switch off the TV for the night, the telephone began to ring. He jumped up and grabbed it before it woke Cyn or Julian.

"Yeah?"

"John?" It was Ringo. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, I was just turning off the telly," John said.

"Have you heard from Paul?" Ringo asked.

"No, if I had I would've called you and George straight away, like we said." John replied. "I did try to call him earlier and the line was busy."

"What time was that?" Ringo asked.

"Er, I tried about five different times," John admitted.

"The longer this goes on, the more worried I get, John," Ringo said. "I took Mo out for dinner and we drove past his house on the way home. Not a single light on."

John sighed. Granted, it wasn't like Paul. But on the other hand, they weren't each others' keepers either. He was free to do what he wanted or go where he wanted, without feeling obligated to tell the others. Funny thing was, they always did tell each other.

"Right, pick me up in ten minutes, or you'll never give me a moment's peace tonight, will you?"

"Thanks, John. I'll be over." The relief in Ringo's voice was palpable as he rang off.

As John was gathering his coat, the phone rang again. "Now what?" he demanded into the receiver.

"Eh? Oh, sorry, John. Were you asleep?"

"No, George, I was about to go outside and wait for Ringo to pick me up."

"Heard from Paul then?" George asked hopefully.

"No, I would've called," John replied exasperated. "Look, we'll swing round for you on our way. We're going back to Paul's house."

"Oh, yeah, ok. I'll be ready. Ta, John." George hung up and John put down the phone, shaking his head. It was like being part of some four-headed monster sometimes, this Beatles thing. Having one of them go missing was messing up the rest of them. On impulse, he picked up the phone again and dialed Paul's number. After listening to the beep beep beep of the busy signal, he frowned and hung up. Lighting a cigarette, he walked out into the night to wait at the gate for Ringo's car.

Martha was whining again, pacing back and forth in front of the door. Paul watched her sympathetically, but there was no way he could drag himself all the way to the front door without blacking out. And he'd had enough of that hitting his head business. He scratched at the itchy crust of dried blood on the side of his face and shivered again.

"Ah." He nearly startled himself, his voice seemed to echo through the dark, empty house. "I can't just sit here waiting for something to happen." He let out a hiccup. What to do first...hmm. He decided the most logical option was to get the phone plugged back in. Sighing and bracing himself for the sharp pain, he grabbed the phone in one hand and began his backwards slide toward the phone jack once again, trying his best to keep his broken leg straight.

Arms trembling and sweat beading on his upper lip, Paul inched along until finally he reached the jack on the wall. Shakily he leaned against the wall for a moment and closed his eyes, feeling faint. God, that had taken a lifetime. But he'd done it. He coiled up the line, which had been dragging along behind him. Nearing the end of it, he jerked in alarm as a cold nose found its way into his palm. Martha had been following the moving wire with interest, temporarily forgetting her need to get outside.

"You," he said. "You...silly dog." She licked his hand.

With great relief, Paul twisted sideways at the waist to put the phone line back into the wall. Now he could get a hold of someone. "Hallelujah," he whispered.

It was so dark he couldn't tell which way to insert the plug. He tried several times and it wouldn't go in. Carefully, he felt the end. A piece of it was cracked off.

"Fucking hell!" he yelled and threw the phone away in a fury. It rebounded off the sofa and fell to the floor with a faint, mocking jingle.

"Oh God," Paul groaned. He was as close to tears as he'd been through this whole thing. Cold, hungry, in intense pain, unable to walk. What was he supposed to do now? He slumped against the wall and let the darkness take him. Martha uttered a mournful sound deep in her throat and sat down with her head on his lap.

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_An: I fixed some spelling mistakes if you don't think I should edit I could upload the raw one __instead_

_Ex: manuevering to maneuvering_


	4. Martha You Dope, Part 4

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather any stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will._

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_**Martha You Dope, Part 4**_

The rising wind nearly blew George's mac over the top of his head as he got in back of Ringo's car. The light rain that had started earlier was getting heavier, and flashes of lightning in the sky promised another stormy night.

John turned in the front seat to greet George. "Lovely English weather, we're having, what?" he said in a mock jolly tone.

"Makes my hair grow faster," George joked, shaking water out of it.

They continued into London, speaking only occasionally as the rain turned into a downpour. Ringo concentrated on the road through the furiously working wipers, trying not to let the bad weather turn his thoughts to gloom.

Everyone in town had taken shelter for the night; the streets were nearly empty. The wind pushed at the car and plastered tree leaves across the windscreen as they turned onto Cavendish Avenue. A large roll of thunder sounded.

"Forgot my raincoat and mucking boots," John commented sarcastically.

"We're going to get soaked the second we get out," Ringo said.

"At least I brought a torch," George said, pulling a flashlight from his coat pocket and flicking it on.

"Good lad," John said. "I didn't think to bring any of my grappling hooks, ropes or rescue equipment."

George gave him a disgusted look and put the torch back in his pocket.

They reached the front entrance to Paul's house. The weather had even succeeded in driving the ever vigilant scruffs away for the night. The place looked deserted. The large trees around the house shook and swayed in the wind as flashes of lightning lit up the sky, creating an eerie backdrop of the shadow of the large house.

Ringo cranked down his window, shivering as the rain came in, and pushed the code to open the gate. It opened slowly, with John adding a "cr-e-a-k" sound effect, making the night seem even more like a surreal halloween scene.

Martha cowered against Paul as thunder rattled the dishes in the dining room. It didn't help that her motionless master gave off the scents of both fear and pain, including the heavy metallic tang of blood. Then she lifted her head and pricked up her ears. Something was outside. She heard a car door slam and faint voices. Getting up, she wuffed gently, then trotted to the front door. She turned back to Paul, but he hadn't moved.

"Bloody freezing!" John yelped, being pelted by wind-driven rain as he got out of the car.

George turned up the collar on his mac and they all ran for the relative shelter of the front entry. A tree branch crashed down in front of Ringo and he nearly slipped in the mud to avoid it. "This is like a bad dream!" he yelled above the wind.

They clustered in front of the door, drenched from their short flight. John immediately pounded on the door again, hoping the lights would go on and Paul would let them in for a hot cup of tea and some explanations. Nothing happened.

Ringo put his face up against the window and tried to see inside, but it was too dark to make out anything.

"Aye, I'd watch that," John said with a strange glint in his eye.

"What?" Ringo asked, trying a different angle against the glass.

"**Woof, Arf, Arf!**" Martha flung herself desperately at the face in the window.

"Gaaa!" Ringo propelled himself backward and would've taken a header off the porch if George hadn't grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

John was bent double, laughing so hard tears streamed down his cheeks.

Ringo straightened his coat and smoothed his wet hair carefully. Turning to John, he said, "When you are through busting a gut, please be so kind as to get out of the way so we can see inside."

John tried to pull himself together. He clapped Ringo on the shoulder. "Same thing happened to me this afternoon, lad. I just couldn't resist. Let's at least rescue the Princess Martha, shall we?" He swallowed another laugh at Ringo's and George's irritated expressions.

"Come on, John, get serious," George said with a worried frown. "I've got a feeling that something is wrong." Martha was barking furiously and continually, leaping at the window and clawing at the door. George pulled the flashlight out of his pocket and moved to the window. Trying to see past the large shaggy dog jumping in front of him, he shone the torch into Paul's house.

The thin beam of light picked out the stairway first. He was about to shine it elsewhere when something dark caught his eye at the bottom of the stairs. Squinting, he thought it looked like a suitcoat lying in a heap.

"See anything?" Ringo asked anxiously.

"Not sure yet," George replied. He moved the light toward the living room, but his view was partially blocked by the wall. The torch revealed a telephone on the floor. "What the..." George muttered, completely puzzled and getting more concerned by the moment.

"I'm going to look round the back," John said, restless to be doing nothing.

"You'll get all wet!" Ringo said.

"Already am," John replied and jumped off the porch into the storm.

A large crash of thunder made Martha back away from the window. She dropped down and padded toward the back of the living room where it met the dining room door. George tried to follow her with the flashlight, straining to see. Suddenly the light shone on a figure slumped against the wall. An unmoving male figure with dark hair. He was shirtless and barefoot, dressed only in baggy pajama pants.

"Oh, God," George breathed. It had to be Paul.

"What, what? What do you see?" Ringo asked frantically.

"I think it's Paul. And there's something wrong. We've got to get in," George said, frustrated that the light wouldn't reveal anything else.

Ringo grabbed at the torch. "Let me see!" George surrendered it and stepped back. Ringo flashed the light around the inside of the house until lightening suddenly illuminated the room and he too got a glimpse of the scene inside. "Oh, no!" He turned to George with large eyes. "You don't think he...?"

George simply gave him a distressed look and jumped off the porch to get John. He ran around the side of the house and spotted him trying to climb up the foundation stone so he could see into the dining room window.

"John!" he shouted as the wind attempted to blow his voice the other direction. Rain splashed in his face.

John heard him and dropped back to the ground. His clothes were soaking, his hair plastered against his head as he walked to George. "What is it?" he shouted as thunder boomed above them.

"We found him!"

"Is he ok?"

"No, we're going to have to break in somehow."

John frowned. "What do you mean 'no'?"

"He's had an accident or something. Come on!" George could see John was going to ask him another question. All he wanted was to find a way to get in the house and fast.

Meanwhile Ringo was still looking inside with the light. Martha had taken Paul's limp hand in her mouth and was trying to tug him to the door. In alarm, Ringo watched as she tugged hard enough to pull Paul over onto his side. Finally he could see Paul's face. "Christ," he whispered and looked around wildly for George and John. Ringo ran off the porch and found the others around the corner in the wild rain.

"What're you doing?" he shouted as the wind whipped the words from his mouth.

"Trying to figure out how to get in," George said.

"I saw his face. It's covered with blood," Ringo blurted.

Before John or George could respond, a lightning bolt blazed down from the black sky and sizzled somewhere in the garden behind them. All three of them jumped, looked at each other with wide eyes and raced back to the safety of the entry.

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_An: I fixed some spelling mistakes if you don't think I should edit I could upload the raw one __instead_

_Ex: lightening to lightning_


	5. Martha You Dope, Part 5

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather any stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will._

* * *

_**Martha You Dope, Part 5 **_

Martha could hear the men outside, but she could no longer see where they were. She barked wildly and ran back to Paul. She slurped on his bare foot with a large, sloppy tongue. Paul jerked in response to the unusual raspy, wet sensation. He stirred, opening his eyes with a groan to find himself still on the floor in his dark, empty house. Suddenly there was crash of glass from the room on the other side of the door behind Paul. Martha barked again. Paul's stomach lurched. He didn't know whether a tree branch had smashed through the window or whether someone was breaking into the house. Either way, he was helpless to do anything about it. "Go and see, girl," he whispered to Martha. She immediately ran through the door to investigate as more noise came from the dining room.

"Here, give me a hand up," George said. They were back in the middle of the storm, at the dining room window. Being the skinniest, George was about shimmy through the side pane they had just broken out with stones and tree branches.

Dripping wet, barely able to see each other for the rain in their eyes, Ringo and John meshed their hands so George could step on them. With a heave and a grunt, they lifted him up.

"Careful of that glass," Ringo shouted up to George.

George gingerly felt along the sill. They had managed to clear the glass fairly thoroughly. More confident that he wasn't about to get cut to ribbons, he hefted himself up by his arms, protected by his coat, and squirmed through the window.

Falling ungracefully in a heap, he was immediately beset by a frantic furry beast, licking him and whining uncontrollably. "Ok, ok, Martha," he tried his best to calm the dog down.

He got up, stumbling over Martha, her furiously wagging rear end almost knocking him over. He felt along the wall for the light switch, but nothing happened when he found it and flipped it. He went back to the window. A flash of lightning revealed John and Ringo still there, squinting up at him.

"Have you got the light?" George shouted to them.

"Aye?" John cupped a hand around his ear. The roar of the wind in the trees was nearly deafening.

"The torch, where's the torch?" George tried again.

Ringo pulled it out of his coat and tossed it up to George. It was slick with rain, and he fumbled, almost dropping it before getting a firm hold and switching it on. He leaned back out into the rain. "I'll let you in the front," he yelled.

John and Ringo nodded, getting pelted with stinging rain drops. Their shoes slid on the wet grass as they made a dash back to the front entry.

Paul thought he heard George's familiar voice. The roll of hopeful relief that washed over him made him weak and brought tears to his eyes. He carefully pushed himself back upright against the wall. "George?" he called softly.

George froze as he heard Paul's weak voice. "Yeah, Paul, it's me. Hang on." Thank God, he thought as he picked his way through the broken glass. Martha ran ahead of him, then ran back to him, urging him on through the door.

He came into the living room, knelt next to Paul and shone the light on him. Paul squinted from the unaccustomed glare. Dried blood had made a mask of half his face. He reached up and grabbed George's hand, trying to reassure himself that this nightmare might really be over.

George, realising he had gone through some sort of traumatic experience, squeezed his hand and patted him on the shoulder with the other. "It's ok now, Paul. We're all here."

Sudden pounding on the front door reminded him that the other two were still outside in the storm. He got up, walked to the door and unlocked it. John and Ringo stumbled in, accompanied by a boom of thunder. They caught their breath for a moment, dripping water everywhere. Martha circled the group, jumping up first on one, then going to another.

"All right, all right. Down, you bloody dog," John said, shoving her away.

George returned to Paul and the others followed. Ringo, sweeping his wet mop of hair out of his eyes, was relieved to see Paul conscious. They all knelt next to him, rather shocked at his appearance. He had a day's growth of stubble under the blood, his face was pale, his eyes held a rather frenetic expression.

"What happened to you?" John asked bluntly.

Paul was still emotional over the sight and sound of his three friends. "Fell down the bloody stairs," he choked out, half laughing, half crying. "Can you believe it?"

The others glanced at each other. "How long have you been here?" Ringo asked gently.

"I don't know what time it is or what day it is anymore, " Paul answered. "But I tripped last night during the storm. Or was it tonight? No, no, it was yesterday..." He trailed off, rather confused by the passage of time. He shivered.

John got up, groped along the sofa in the near darkness and found a throw blanket. He brought it back and covered Paul with it, who gratefully wrapped it around his shoulders. The rest of them were all rather chilled from being soaking wet too. A flash of lightning and the sudden resurgence of rain on the roof reminded them of that fact.

"I tried to get to the phone, but Martha here got to it first and cracked off part of the plug." Paul closed his eyes.

"Let's get you up, eh?" Ringo suggested. He held out a hand.

"Afraid I can't. My leg's broken," Paul said. They all instantly looked down at his legs, which revealed nothing under the pajama pants.

"Which one?" George asked.

"Left one," Paul answered. "Hurts like hell and I can't use it."

"Your power's out and your bloody phone is broken so we can't call for help. Just lovely," John sighed.

"We'll have to get you to hospital, Paul," George said.

Paul winced, but still felt much better now that his mates were surrounding him. "Give it a try then," he said.

John and George each took an arm while Ringo tried to stabilize Paul's leg. "Ready?" John looked at Paul.

"No," he replied, taking a deep breath. "But let's do it."

They hoisted him up between them. Paul tried to support himself, but unimaginable agony shot from his leg when he put some weight on it. He sucked in a groan. Stars and flashing lights began whirling before his eyes again.

"Fuck," he grimaced, "I'm going..."

Unconscious, he sagged in their grip. John and George struggled to keep him from toppling over. "Well, he's not going to feel a thing now," John said. "Let me have him."

George let go and John swept Paul up in his arms. Ringo shone the torch over him and they all got a glimpse of his leg hanging at a sickeningly wrong angle.

"Christ," George blanched. "Try not to shift him much."

John quickly carried Paul to the sofa. "We'll have to make up a splint or something before taking him anywhere," he said.


	6. Martha You Dope, Part 6

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather any stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will._

* * *

_**Martha You Dope, Part 6 **_

Ringo shuffled through the darkness to retrieve the blanket Paul had dropped and draped it back on him. Then he, George and John moved away from the unconscious form of their bass player to discuss options. Lightning flashed, illuminating their faces.

"There must be something around here to use as a splint," John said.

"Yeah, but do you know how to do it?" Ringo asked. "I don't have a clue."

John shrugged, "Can't be that tricky-just keeps the leg straight."

"Right," George looked anxiously back at Paul. "Whatever we do, lads, we'd better get started. We don't know what he did to his head, you know."

John snorted, "With his hard skull, he should be all right."

Paul heard voices through the fog. Comforting, familiar voices. He opened his eyes to find a huge, distorted, hairy, black and white face with no apparent eyes just inches from his nose. He let out a strangled yell of alarm and tried to backpedal away, only to bang his head against the end of the sofa and suffer the pain from using his broken leg.

Martha, just as startled by her master's sudden resurrection, let out a bark and started running wildly around the room. The other Beatles bumped into each other in the near darkness as they all turned toward the sofa to see what was going on. Ringo tripped over the frantic Martha, grabbed onto an unprepared John to save himself, and they both ended up on the floor. George shone the torch on them.

"Bravo," Paul muttered, wincing as he tried to sit up.

"Hey," George replied. "We were kind of hoping you'd stay out until we'd had a chance to splint your leg."

"With your gentle touch, I'll probably be out again in a minute," Paul joked.

George looked at him, slightly upset. "It's ok, George," Paul said. "I'm just playing with you." He looked at John. "Apparently we didn't get too far."

John pulled a clump of dog hair from his wet pants. "Shit, Paul, don't you ever vacuum?"

Paul looked annoyed. "I'll do it right now, if you like, sir."

"That would be fine, lowly servant," John replied and sat gingerly on the sofa next to him. "If we try to do anything you're just going to faint again, aren't you?"

Paul almost laughed. "I don't know how many times my head's hit the floor already, man. What's a few more times going to do? I'm getting rather used to it."

Ringo couldn't resist speaking up. "He's right, you know. Not much left to damage."

George shone the torch on Paul. He held up a bloody hand and squinted. "Aye, get away with that light, would you?"

"You're bleeding again," George said.

Paul cautiously felt the lump on his head. "Just seeping, nothing spurting," he answered. "Must've re-opened it when Martha scared the shit out of me."

On hearing her name, Martha whined and decided all that running was not getting her any attention. She went to stand beside John, who gave her a distrusting glance through the darkness.

"Bloody dog is good at that," he commented.

Another bolt of lightning splintered the night, and a rumble of thunder soon followed. Rain spattered against the windows. Ringo shivered in his wet clothes. "Well, fellas," he said. "I don't know about you, but I'm freezing my balls off. I'm going to your closet, Paul, and find something dry to put on."

"Don't take the blue silk shirt, just bought it," Paul muttered. He remembered with sudden clarity how thirsty he was. "Could I have a glass of water?"

"That's right, I suppose you haven't had anything to eat or drink in a while," George said as he shone the light ahead of himself and went to the kitchen. He came back and handed Paul a cool glass of pure liquid heaven, so it seemed to Paul, who sipped it slowly.

George then led the way upstairs with the light. "Don't do a Paul," John warned the others rather snidely as they slowly felt their way up the stairs.

Paul sat in the darkness savoring his water and listening to the others' muffled voices as they dug through his clothing.

"Hey George, here's a good shirt for you. Very 'grotty', it is," he heard Ringo crack.

"I can't fasten these pants," John complained.

"Suck it in, son," came George's voice.

A particularly sharp blast of thunder sounded and a panicked furry projectile launched itself onto Paul's lap. Curling up with agony, white spikes of pain flashing before his eyes, Paul dropped the glass, and man and dog both tumbled off the sofa onto the floor. There was a muffled crunching sound as the glass broke underneath them.

After the pain from his leg lessened, Paul became aware of something sharp digging into his bare back. "You stupid dog!" he shouted and shoved at Martha who knew she was in trouble again and ran into the dining room.

"Lads?" Paul's voice was drowned out by another rumble of thunder. But the others were already making their careful way back down the stairs. Each had found something that fit them.

"Aye, what are you doing on the floor again?" George asked as he shone the light on Paul.

Paul gritted his teeth. "Having a picnic. Get me up and get the damn glass out of my back!"

The others looked stupidly at each other for a moment. John reached Paul and helped pull him up into a sitting position. "Oh, shit," John sighed. "How'd you manage to do this in the few minutes we were upstairs?"

"Blame Martha," Paul replied still with gritted teeth. "Pull it out, it's killing me."

The flashlight revealed fresh bright blood flowing evenly down his back. The source was a glinting, curved piece of glass, about an inch long, embedded into Paul's skin.

"Ugh," Ringo looked queasy now. "I don't think we should pull that out."

"I think you should get rid of that dog," George said. "Look at all the trouble she's caused."

"I think it's his own fault for being such a clumbsy nit," John theorized.

"Can I tell you what I think?" Paul glared at them from the floor. "I think, if you aren't going to help me, then you should all shut up and get the hell out!" he shouted.

"All right, then," John said calmly. "Come on, lads. Let's go to the club for a nightcap."

"I wouldn't be caught dead with you wearing that outfit," George replied, flashing the light up and down John's peculiar choice of striped grey pants and yellow spotted shirt.

"Hey," Ringo said quietly. "This isn't the time to joke around, mates." He gestured to Paul who sat with his head bowed and eyes closed.

"You're right," John said rather guiltily. He squatted down next to Paul. "Let's see what we can do."

Squinting at the wound, he said, "Well, I don't think it will kill you if I pull it out."

"Go on then! Just get it out!" Paul answered impatiently.

John swallowed and took hold of an edge of the jagged glass. "Ready?"

"Yes!"

John yanked it out as quickly and cleanly as he could. Ringo turned his head away at the last second, and the light quivered as George's hand shook slightly.


	7. Martha You Dope, Part 7

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather any stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will._

* * *

_**Martha You Dope Part 7 **_

They all heard Paul inhale sharply through his nose. His fingers dug into the rug, his eyes scrunched shut. He stayed that way for several seconds after John pulled the piece of glass out. Rich red blood continued to ooze down his back from the resulting gash. Then he exhaled gustily and opened his eyes. George quickly averted the light from his face.

"That's better," he said shakily. "Now what?"

John dropped the jagged chunk of glass on the coffee table, looking a bit pale himself. As George turned the torch toward him, the light dimmed noticeably, flickered back on for a moment, then abruptly went out. Silence reigned, punctuated only by the sound of the driving rain against the windows.

John's voice came through the darkness, deceptively mild. "Aye, George, when's the last time you checked your batteries?"

A new noise, like someone slapping an object against their palm, came to the others' ears. George was hitting the flashlight in an attempt to coax it back into life. "Sorry," he muttered. "At least I thought to bring one!"

There was a crash, followed by a thud, a quick whine from Martha, and Ringo's voice. "So help me, Paul, I'm going to murder that dog!" he said, his voice rising from somewhere on the floor.

After a long pause, John heard Paul breathing in funny gasps. John reached out a hand and felt his shoulder. Paul was shaking in silent laughter. A strangled snort escaped him, and John started laughing too, which set George off. Finally Ringo joined in until they were all nearly incapacitated, lightning from the storm flickering briefly on each face.

Finally George sighed. "I needed that," he said.

"Now what?" Ringo asked, carefully getting up from the floor and feeling the air around him for obstructions.

"I don't think my torches are in any better shape," Paul said. "I haven't used them in ages."

"Do you even know where they are?" John asked.

"Uh, in the broom closet...possibly?"

"To the broom closet," John commanded.

"Why don't you just go?" Ringo said. "That way we won't be bumping into each other...or other things," he added meaningfully as he heard panting coming from somewhere behind him.

"Coward," John retorted, moving past them with his arms outstretched. He stopped. "Exactly where is this closet, Paul?"

Paul thought for a moment. "Go around the stairway. It's built into it on the other side. You'll feel a knob."

"Ooh goodness," John's voice, in a queer kind of old woman's tone, came floating to them from a distance now. "I haven't felt a knob in quite some time!"

"Hurry up," Paul smiled despite his discomfort. "My ass is falling asleep over here."

"Who you calling an ass?" Ringo quipped.

George groaned. "I knew that was coming."

They listened to the storm outside. The wind continued to howl. Tree branches occasionally bounced off the window panes and thudded on the roof. An even heavier torrent of rain pounded against the glass.

Then they heard the protesting shriek of rusty hinges as John pulled open the closet door and felt along the shelf. His hand closed around a heavy old flashlight, but when he clicked the button, nothing happened.

"Wonderful," he muttered and went back to groping through the closet. This time he felt several tapered candles. "That'll do," he said. Pulling the rather damp matches he had retrieved from his wet clothes out of his pocket, he lit one of the tapers and held it up so he could see into the closet. There were no more torches, but he pulled out one of the brooms before closing the door and carefully making his way back to the others.

"That's better," Ringo said as John dripped some wax on the coffee table and planted the candle into it.

"Aye!" Paul protested John's treatment of his furniture.

"Shut up, we're saving you," John said absently as he lit another candle and examined Paul's back. The bleeding had stopped. He gave his candle to George and hefted the broom experimentally in his hand. With one quick gesture, he brought the handle down across his knee.

"Ow! Shit!"

The handle hadn't cracked like he had expected it to. George snickered.

"Use Martha," Ringo suggested helpfully as the dog perked up her ears and started wagging her tail.

"Look at that-she trusts you," Paul said in mock reproach. "How could you suggest such a thing."

"Just goes to show how dumb she really is," John said while rubbing his knee. "Here, laughing boy, you have a go." He took the candle back from George and gave him the broom.

"Well, first of all, you should measure how long it needs to be." George knelt next to Paul with the broom and compared it to his leg. "Then you need to use something strong." He stood up and quickly brought the broom down over the corner of the coffee table with a crack.

"Aye!" Paul again protested the harsh treatment of his furniture.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," John intoned.

"Shut up," Paul replied sourly. His leg was throbbing; he knew what was to come wouldn't make it feel any better.

"You've done it, son," Ringo congratulated George as he lit another candle and held it up.

"We need some strips of cloth to tie it on with," George said, feeling rather professional.

"Don't be using my best shirts," Paul muttered as the others split up with candles to look.

Ringo went in the kitchen and set his candle inside a glass as he tugged experimentally on a tea towel. Martha followed him and stood by her food bowl, whining hopefully. Ringo glanced at her. "Oh, all right. I'm sure you must be famished." He dug through the bottom cupboards until he found her dogfood and shoveled a scoop into her bowl. Martha attacked it before the last nugget hit the bowl.

"Remember this and don't be tripping me anymore now," Ringo told her. "I must've hit my head too...talking to a dog," he muttered.

Meanwhile, John wandered through the guest room, marveling at the assortment of women's lingerie he found left behind in the dresser drawers. "Paul could start his own shop," he mumbled as he gingerly hooked a lacy garter with one finger. This would never do for a splint, fascinating as it was.

George burrowed through Paul's closet until he found a tatty old stained shirt that he couldn't possibly object to using. Meeting John back at the top of the stairway, they went down together. George couldn't help but picture how Paul must've tumbled down the stairs. He sidestepped around the dark puddle of blood at the bottom with a slight shudder.

Paul's face was ghostly in the candlelight. His leg was feeling decidedly worse the longer time went on. He was also lightheaded from lack of food, but wasn't really interested in eating because of the pain. "Ring, can you help me get back on the sofa?" he asked Ringo when he returned. "It's really uncomfortable on the floor."

Ringo set his candle, which he'd left in the glass, on the table and put his hands under Paul's arms from behind. "Ok?" he asked.

Paul pushed up with his good leg as Ringo hoisted him up and steered him to the sofa. They both heard a click when his left leg dragged across the sofa. Paul grunted and dropped down onto the cushions with relief. Lights flashed before his eyes and he wasn't sure if it was from the lightning outside or from how faint he was feeling.

* * *

_An: I fixed some spelling mistakes if you think I shouldn't edit I could upload the raw one instead_

_ex: occassionally to occasionally _


	8. Martha You Dope, Part 8

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather any stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will._

* * *

_**Martha You Dope Part 8 **_

George looked down in concern at Paul's face in the candlelight. "Paul, how're you doing, mate?"

There was no answer. Paul's eyes were closed, his face slack. John, Ringo and George exchanged a glance.

John leaned over and gently shook him. "Macca, come on. Don't fade out now."

Paul half-opened his eyes. "I'm just taking a little kip," he muttered. A loud crash of thunder roused him more and his eyes met John's. "We'd better get going, aye?" he said.

Martha whined at the foot of the couch, but Ringo kept a careful eye on her to make sure she didn't get it in her furry head to leap up on the sofa again.

George lit another candle and added it to the group slowly melting all over the coffee table. They'd need light for this. He tested the hem of the old shirt he'd taken from upstairs and started tearing it into strips.

John knelt next to Paul and gingerly pulled his pajama pants leg up. He swallowed loudly. "Christ."

The leg was swollen, the skin stretched to the point of looking shiny. Mottled bruising spread across the knee area, and there was a disturbing dented look to the leg where the broken bone lay underneath.

"What?" Paul tried to raise his head to look, but the lump on his head was throbbing and he decided, by the looks of the others' faces, that he was better off not seeing.

"Right," George said. "Let's do it."

John handed him the broomstick splint and George carefully held it alongside Paul's leg, wondering if it was supposed to go a certain way. "Ok," he said, and held out a hand for a strip of cloth. Ringo gave him one and he maneuvered it under the stick and over Paul's leg just above the knee. He stole a glance at Paul's face, which was still calm, and slowly pulled the strip of cloth tighter around the leg so he could tie it off.

"All right, Paul?" he asked as he finished the first one.

"Right as rain," Paul replied, suddenly realising he'd been holding his breath.

George nodded to Ringo, who handed him another strip of cloth. This one had to go under the knee, closer to the break, and although George tried his best to be gentle, the pressure of the cloth squeezed a gasp out of Paul. George stopped.

"It's ok, keep going," Paul told him and screwed his eyes shut tight.

John looked on helplessly for a bit then wandered over to look out the window and to light a cigarette. The night was black, except for flashes of lightning. The wind still howled, splashing rain and leaves from the trees onto the pane he was looking out of. Then, from the corner of his eye, John thought he saw something dart toward the house from a tangle of bushes near the fence. Thunder rolled in a long, low rumble.

"What the...?" John squinted and leaned forward, trying to catch another glimpse of whatever he thought he'd seen. Suddenly something launched itself at the window right in front of him. It shook under the impact, the frame rattled. John recoiled, afraid the glass was going to shatter, and the cigarette dropped out of his startled fingers.

The others had heard the thud also. Ringo walked to John's side and looked out the window. "What the hell was that? A tree branch?"

"Not unless tree branches have eyes...red eyes," John said faintly.

Ringo looked quickly at him to see if he was joking. A frown crossed his face as he saw John's blank, shocked expression. He looked down and saw John's cigarette smoldering on the rug. "Aye!" he shouted and stamped on it.

"Jesus, John," Paul muttered, opening his eyes. "Don't fuck around with us like that. It's too creepy out."

John's heart was pounding. As the thing had hit the glass, he could've sworn he saw two malevolent eyes glaring back at him. They had glowed with a faint crimson light.

"Something's out there," he said abruptly. He couldn't control an irrational fear that some evil thing produced by the storm was about to burst into the house. He strode to the front door and turned the dead bolt with a click.

Martha, still standing guard by Paul's feet, let out a short growl. No one spoke as George resumed fastening the splint to Paul's leg, shooting occassional glances at John and RIngo, who had backed away from the large living room window.

Then Paul sat up, wincing as the homemade splint dragged against the couch. "What was that?"

They were all getting jumpy. They froze and listened. A faint scratching sound was coming from the back kitchen door. The one that led out into the unkempt garden.

"Oh, shit," Ringo whispered. "Is it locked?"

Paul didn't answer so Ringo repeated, with rising panic. "Damn it, Paul, is your back door locked?"

"I...I'm not sure. It should be."

George looked up at John with sudden horror in his eyes. "The dining room window is knocked out!"

"All right, all right!" John said loudly. "Come on, lads. Let's pull ourselves together here."

"Could someone light me a ciggie, please?" Paul asked tersely.

John fumbled with his pack, lit one and handed it to Paul with trembling fingers. Paul immediately took a large pull on the cigarette, feeling the nicotine slowly trickle into his bloodstream, calming his nerves. "Someone had better check the door and nail up the window," he suggested.

"Easy for you to say, you know you're not going to be the one to do it," Ringo replied.

"Come on, we don't even know if there really is anything out there," Paul said. "The lightning could've been playing tricks on your eyes, John."

"It could've," John replied slowly.

"It might've just been a stray dog freaked by the storm," George suggested.

"It might've," John said softly.

The scratching began again. Rather than a random sound like a branch being pushed by the wind, it sounded like something being drawn deliberately across the wood in a consistent pattern.

John inhaled deeply and blew the breath out. "Hell," was all he said as he grabbed a candle and walked toward the back of the house.

Paul looked with wide eyes at George and Ringo. "Don't let him go alone!" he said in alarm.

George stood up and followed John after taking his own candle from the table. It was considerably dimmer after they left. One candle had already melted down to its wick and gone out. Martha growled again and let out a high-pitched whine.

"Stop it, Martha!" Paul said sharply, taking another drag on the cigarette, his own hand shaking. The fear had risen above the pain for now, but he didn't know if he preferred that by any means. "We're going to need more candles, Ringo," he said. "Can you go take a look?"

Ringo nodded dully and picked up the candle he'd put in the glass. There were only about two inches left of it.

"See if there's a hammer or anything in there too, aye?" Paul added quietly.

Ringo knew what he meant. In case they needed to protect themselves against...something. Lightning lit up the house, casting nightmarish shadows on the furniture, making trees leap to life outside. Ringo gulped and went quickly to the broom closet.

Passing through the dining room, John and George stopped to shove Paul's antique cherry wood hutch up against the broken panes of glass where George had crawled in.

"That'll have to do," John grunted.

"The scratching's stopped," George said nervously. He lifted his candle higher, trying to get it to shed a little more light.

"Let's have a look," John said more calmly than he felt. In reality, he thought his heart might take a jump out of his throat at any moment, it was beating so hard.

They pushed the door to the kitchen open and peered inside, looking at the far wall where the door to the backyard was. The candlelight couldn't penetrate the darkness, so they were forced to step farther into the room.

There was nothing in the kitchen. The door was closed and the bolt locked. John and George breathed in relief. Then a crash reverberated through the room as something outside flung itself against the door. It trembled from the impact.

"Oh, shit!"

"Fucking hell!"

As the two Beatles lunged for the door, John tore open a drawer. It slid off its rollers from the force of his yank and fell to the floor, scattering all its contents. John dug through the mess, still holding his candle in one shaky hand, until his hand closed on a long knife. "George, here!" he whispered as he scrabbled around for another weapon. This time he found a large butcher knife with a deadly-looking thick blade.

George, leaning against the door, took the handle of the knife gingerly. "What the fuck is out there?" he breathed fearfully.

Ringo dropped the four extra candles he'd found, cracking one down the middle, as John's and George's yells rang through the house. "Paul?" he asked in a trembling voice.

"Yeah, Ring. Come on, did you find anything?" Paul's voice held a note of panicked urgency.

"Just candles so far." He reached farther back and felt along the shelf. "Come on, come on," he muttered to himself. "Ah, there's a scissors and a screwdriver," he said, pulling them out.

"Good, ok," Paul said. "Grab another broom-one with the thickest handle." He was feeling decidedly edgy about being immobile with whatever was going on in the kitchen. He tried shifting his leg down off the sofa, but it rewarded him with blinding pain. As the fog cleared, a horrible thought flashed into his mind.

"Oh Christ, the dog door," he whispered.

"John!" he shouted, "the dog door, latch the fucking dog door!"

George and John heard Paul's warning. They froze; their eyes met. At the same instant, something huge with lethal, inch-long claws punched through the dog door and seized George by the ankle.

* * *

_An: I fixed some spelling mistakes if you think I shouldn't edit I could upload the raw one instead_

_ex: manuevered to maneuvered_


	9. Martha You Dope, Part 9

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather any stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will._

* * *

_**Martha You Dope Part 9**_

Or_ It Was a Dark and Stormy Night_

George let out a strangled scream of shock and pain as he felt claws sink into his ankle. He tried to shake the thing off his leg, but could barely move because of the weight and strength of the creature behind the door.

John gaped at George and the hairy paw grabbing him. For an instant, it reminded John of a giant cat toying with a mouse, playfully poking at it through the mousehole before breaking its neck.

"John! Help!" George yelled. The thing was pulling on him. He lost his balance and fell to the floor. The giant claws flexed in his flesh, gaining a better hold. The thing was going to drag him straight through the dog door! His ankle disappeared through the door. Martha, being a sheepdog, had a rather large doggie door.

John ran to George and grabbed one of his waving hands. With the other hand, he held the butcher knife. Both of them had dropped their candles. Only the flashes of lightning lent them light to see by.

"I can't stab it!" John shouted. "It's too dark-I could get you!"

Suddenly Ringo burst into the room, wielding both a candle and a screwdriver. He looked in blank horror at the blood pooled on the floor and George's agonized face. The light gave John the chance he needed. He threw aside the knife, grabbed George under both arms and yanked as hard as he could. George let out a pained grunt, but pushed as best as he could with his free leg against the door. They tumbled backwards on the floor as the beast lost its grip.

It snaked its giant paw back through the door, swiping around. Ringo's mouth dropped open, his eyes bulged. "Get it!" John shouted.

Ringo woke up and plunged the screwdriver down, skewering the center of the paw to the floor. Whatever it was on the other side of the door let out an earsplitting howl of pain and rage. The door trembled as the creature wrenched itself loose. The screwdriver clattered loudly on the wooden floor as the suddenly empty dog door swung back and forth on its hinges. All was suddenly, eerily silent except for George's gasps of pain and the others' heavy breathing.

Paul heard the unearthly yowl. With Ringo gone, he was alone in the front room with a table full of dripping candles and clutching a pair of scissors for defense. The scream made him once again attempt to sit up. There was no way he was going to be lying down if something tried to attack. What was going on in the kitchen? He dragged his splinted leg down, grinding his teeth as it banged onto the floor with a jolt. His heart thudded as he reached for the broom Ringo had left propped on the edge of the sofa. He positioned it carefully then pushed upward into a standing position. Like the last time he'd tried to stand, flashing lights blocked his vision; his head pounded.

Paul gripped the broom pole, using it as a cane to support his weight, and fought to stay conscious. "No fainting, no fainting, no fainting..." he chanted.

Slowly his sight cleared. He was upright at last. He took one hesitant half hop, half step and found it wasn't too unbearable. As he took another small step, he felt something crawl under his feet. "No!"

He wobbled wildly, trying to regain his balance, but fell sideways. This time his shoulder slammed into the coffee table. A couple of the candles fell over and rolled slowly toward the edge of the table. They teetered precariously for a few seconds, then dropped over the side onto the persian wool carpet. Entangled between Paul's feet, Martha let out a guilty yowl and fled up the stairs. Paul lay unmoving as the rug smoldered, then burst into flame.

"George?" John questioned breathlessly. "Are you ok?"

Still held in John's grasp, George felt searing pain coming from his ankle. He could feel the blood trickling down into his sock. "I'm not sure," he said. "At least I think I still have my foot."

"What was that?" Ringo whispered as he knelt down next to George and John.

John looked at his white face, but ignored the question. "Ring, think you can get that door locked?"

Ringo's face looked whiter yet. "All right," he said sickly. Cautiously he stood to the side of the door and, in one speedy move, latched the dog door.

Through his pain, George snorted. "Like that's going to keep whatever that thing is out!" A hysterical giggle escaped him.

John glanced sharply at him. "Come on, let's take a look at your leg." He pulled him farther into the kitchen for safety's sake while Ringo held up his candle and shot fearful glances out the kitchen window.

Carefully peeling off George's shoe and sock, John sucked in a breath. Even in the dimness of the candlelight, the injury looked jagged and nasty. Like pieces of shredded meat were hanging from George's ankle. He met Ringo's eyes. "Soap, water, towel," he instructed tersely.

George leaned back in John's arms. "Hope I don't get rabies or something," he muttered.

Ringo and John washed the deep scratches and puntures and wrapped George's ankle with a dishcloth. "Best we can do for now," Ringo said with a hand on George's shoulder.

"It's fine," George said. "What did you leave Paul doing? Waltzing around the living room?"

"Paul!" Ringo stood up quickly. John helped George up and slung his arm around his shoulder to help him walk. As they moved into the dining room, they all became aware of the strong odor of singed fabric and smoke.

"Oh, shit," John groaned. "Now what's happened?" He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as they came through the dining room door. The area around the coffee table was engulfed in flames. The thick acrid smoke caused all of them to start coughing.

"Paul!" George nodded at John to let him stand on his own. The three of them fanned out on either side of the main area of fire, calling Paul's name. Once again, it was George who spotted his inert body lying nearly under the table in the only spot spared from the flames.

"Over here!" he yelled to John and Ringo. Without hesitation, John plunged into the ring of fire, knelt over Paul and slung him over his shoulder. Grunting with the effort, he stood up and staggered back out of the flames. Ringo and George supported him as he coughed violently, clearing the smoke from his lungs, with Paul dangling from his shoulder. George slapped at smoking spot on his trousers.

"We've...got to...get the..fire out," John wheezed.

Ringo ran back into the kitchen, tearing through the cupboard until he found pitchers to fill with water. George limped into the main floor bath and soaked several towels.

Still coughing, John carried Paul to the other side of the stairway and propped him up against the bottom baluster.

"Paul, hey, Paul. Come on, man, you gotta stop this shit." He tapped Paul lightly on the side of his face, then slightly harder when he failed to respond. John's hand came away with something warm and sticky on it. The fall had reopened the gash on Paul's head again; blood oozed down the side of his cheek. John peered closely at him by the light of the fire. He didn't appear to be burned anywhere. John was wracked by another coughing spell; his eyes teared from the smoke. He slumped back on his heels and looked over to see George's silhouette against the flames as he smothered the fire with the damp towels. Ringo was running back and forth throwing pitchers of water on the fire, which went out in a hiss. They had it out in short order, but the dense smoke left them all gasping and coughing. Worse, they were plunged back into complete darkness.


	10. Martha You Dope, Part 10

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather any stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will._

* * *

_**Martha You Dope Part 10**_

"Sit down here on the floor," John pulled on Ringo's pant's leg.

Ringo sat. "We need to open some windows," he gasped.

George shuddered. "You're barmy! Remember what's out there?"

Paul groaned and stirred. John reached out a hand and felt his eyelids quiver. Paul turned his head away and opened his eyes. To blackness. The other three heard his rather alarmed gasp.

"It's ok, Paul," Ringo said. "We don't have any more candles."

Paul started coughing like the rest of them. "What happened? Is everyone all right?"

There was a short silence as Ringo, George and John tried to figure out what to tell him.

John finally started. "George was grabbed by something outside. Couldn't see anything of it but a bloody great paw. We patched him up and then found the living room ablaze."

"I was trying to get to you when I tripped on something and fell. Must've knocked the candles over," Paul said.

"You're fucking lucky you aren't burned to ashes right now," George muttered. His own ankle was throbbing.

Paul was silent. He was feeling anything but lucky at that moment. Slowly he raised himself into a sitting position and groped around. His hand brushed against John's arm and he found it trembling.

"John?" he questioned quietly.

"This is just too fucking crazy," John said shakily. "Can you believe what's happening? Here we sit, back in the dark. Can't get out because some thing out there tried to fucking tear George's foot off. Can't stay because you need to get to a bloody doctor. George too, now."

"I'm not so bad, John," Paul said. "The splint helps a lot."

"Then why are you fucking passing out every ten minutes?" John snapped.

John felt scared and cornered. And when he got scared and cornered, his language became even more peppered with foul language. Paul sighed. He was, quite suddenly, completely exhausted. The best thing in the world would be to just curl up in a ball and go to sleep, to escape this nightmare. He closed his eyes.

George felt as if his leg were burning. Hot pain ran up and down from his ankle. But he was shivering with cold. He didn't say anything to the others. Why alarm them more? "Does anyone know what time it is?" he asked instead.

"We got here about midnight, I think. Maybe about three hours or so have passed?" Ringo guessed.

"So it's around three in the morning," John said glumly. "No hope of the sun coming up any time soon." As if to mock him, a flash of lightning briefly illuminated all their tired, smudged faces and was followed by a clap of thunder. The rain, which had lightened, returned with a pounding vengence.

"Paul, can you think of where you might have any more candles, torches or even oil lamps?" John asked. Light would at least raise their spirits a bit.

Paul didn't answer. Another flash of lightning revealed him slumped against the bottom step, eyes closed.

"He's asleep," Ringo said.

"How can that git sleep?" George asked in reproachful wonder.

"He's had a time of it, hasn't he?' John replied.

They all fell silent, eventually dropping into fitful sleep themselves, huddled together on the hard floor. Martha crept back downstairs and laid across Paul's lap with a sigh. Occassionally she lifted her head and growled at the front door, but no one was awake to hear her.

Paul awoke with a jerk. Martha was barking and growling fiercely somewhere in the darkness."Martha?" His voice came out in a whisper. He cleared his throat from the smoke and tried again. "Martha? Come here, girl!" He heard her nails tapping across the floor.

The rest of them had woken to Martha's furious barking too. John groaned at the stiffness in his muscles.

"George?" Ringo asked in the blackness. "You still doing ok?"

"Peachy!" George snapped. Ringo was a bit taken aback. George usually handled things with more dignity than that.

Outside, the rain had let up again. In the resulting quiet came the sound of something big crunching through the dead leaves and branches strewn around the grass. It seemed to stop underneath the large living room window.

"Oh no," Ringo half moaned to himself.

Before they had time to do anything else, the window shattered. The impact was so great that they felt the sharp spray of glass shards from where they sat. Scrambling up, John yelled, "Fucking hell! Upstairs!"

He pulled on Paul as they heard a horrible howl and the sound of splintering wood. A rancid smell overpowered the smoke. A smell like raw meat gone bad. Ringo grabbed George and they all stumbled up the stairs in the darkness.

"Hurry, hurry!" John was nearly frantic. It was as if he could feel the beast's hot breath on his back.

Paul was to the point where it really didn't matter to him anymore. Every time John dragged him up another stair, his leg smashed into the next riser. The pain was incredible. This time around, it did beat out the fear.

John felt him sag in his grip. "No. No you don't!" he said wildly. Yanking Paul up, he slapped him hard across the face. "Don't you dare!" he yelled, shaking him. "You fucker, I'll leave you here, I swear I will!"

"No you won't," Paul muttered. Raising his own hand, he delivered a resounding slap to John's face, which stopped his hysteria cold.

Without another word, they reached the top of the stairs. "My room, my room!" Paul shouted above the din of crashing wood and growling. The four of them fell into the room and Ringo slammed the door. Then they heard the high-pitched, panicked barking of a terrified dog.

"Martha!" Paul shouted. He lunged out of John's grasp and fell against the door, pulling it open.

"No, Paul!" Ringo grabbed him and tried to stop him from leaving the sanctuary of the room.

Paul shook him off and stumbled out the door, calling to Martha. She came running up the stairs and knocked him over as she fled into the bedroom. Something pounded up the stairs after Martha. It stopped and loomed over Paul; something breathing in harsh gasps, emitting waves of rank, rotten breath that nearly gagged him. In stupified amazement, he gazed up as the merciless lightning flashed full on a furred face with beady eyes, a pointed snout filled with rows of curved, yellowed teeth. The thing from hell bent over him, slavering. Strings of ropey saliva dripped onto Paul's upturned face.

Suddenly he was yanked away by rough hands under his armpits. John propelled him into the bedroom as the creature roared and gave chase. John left him lying on the floor as Ringo slammed and locked the door. John and George, heaving and straining, shoved Paul's wardrobe in front of it. There was a tremendous crash as the creature smashed against the door. Then they heard its low-pitched growling as it began to pace in front of the bedroom.

Paul lay face-up on the floor, stunned. He didn't even bother to wipe the stinking drool from his face. He lay there and stared blankly at the ceiling. Ringo felt his way to the nightstand beside the bed and reached inside. Ignoring the shape of condom packets and other expected items, he searched for one particular shape, praying he'd find it. At the very back of the drawer, his hand closed around the slim form of a small flashlight. He pulled it out and tried the switch. A thin beam of light burst out and shone on the opposite wall.

"Light," John breathed reverently.

Ringo shone it next to Paul. "Are you ok?"

Paul didn't answer. He found the ceiling fascinating, really quite beautiful. Funny how he never noticed that before. He smiled.

George didn't like that smile. It was wrong. Paul should be gibbering in fear, something. He nudged him with his good foot. "What'd you see?" he asked brusquely. "What'd it look like?"

Paul continued to stare at the ceiling with a dreamy expression, his mind forming a protective barrier against the thing he'd just witnessed.

In the hall, the creature stopped moving back and forth. In fact, they could no longer hear anything from it. George turned impatiently to John, who was trying to light a cigarette with badly shaking hands. "Did you see it?"

John shrugged. "I was concentrating on grabbing Paul and getting the hell out of there before I lost my head. All I saw was something big and hairy."

Ringo grimaced. "How hairy?"

"It was wearing a wristwatch," Paul said pleasantly from the floor. They all started and looked down at him. He turned his cheerful face to George. But the facade started to crumble rapidly as the images flooded back.

The smile faltered and his voice cracked. "It had on a man's gold wristwatch," he repeated. "Oh God." He closed his eyes and tears squeezed out. "You can't imagine..."

Ringo knelt next him. "Come on, Paul. We're all here. Sit up, there's a good lad. You'll feel better." He patted him on the shoulder.

John shuddered. He didn't know how they were going to get out of this.


	11. Martha You Dope, Part 11

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather any stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will._

* * *

_**Martha You Dope, 11**_

Ringo pulled Paul to his feet. He stood awkwardly with his weight balanced on his good leg. "John, I need another one of those," he said shakily, gesturing at John's cigarette glimmering in the dark.

He sat on the edge of the bed, accepting the smoke from John with a sigh. After a quick inhale, he said, "Sorry. It was just...unbelievable. I mean, it's something out of a horror movie, not real life for Christ's sake." He wiped a hand across his eyes and felt with disgust the beast's drool on his hand. "Shit! Could someone get me a cloth so I can wipe off this stinking slime?"

Although his own ankle ached, George was glad enough to just do something rather than uselessly sit there waiting for something to happen. He was restless. "I'll get it," he said, limping to the bathroom.

"Here, George, you may need this," Ringo tossed him the penlight.

"Careful with that!" John said sharply. "We need it!"

He stood by the window looking out at the blackness, wondering if the thing could scale vertical walls as well as crash through windows. If so, they were really screwed.

George flicked the light on long enough to find a cloth and wet it with water from the tap. As he did so, he happened to glance up at his image in the mirror. He was startled to see the thick shadow of beard on his face. Rubbing his hand over it, he muttered, "Hasn't been that long since my last shave."

Something about the hand covering his face then caught his attention and he shone the light on it to find it covered with a light down of black fuzz. Staring, George shook his head dismissively. "No, that's a load of rubbish!" he said loudly. He turned off the flashlight.

"What, George?" Ringo's voice came from the doorway between the bath and the bedroom.

"Nothing, I'm fine."

He came back out and dropped down on the bed next to Paul. "Here," he said shortly.

"Ta." Paul wiped his face obsessively. "Gaa, I wish I could have a proper wash!"

"Don't you ever stop complaining?" George snapped at him.

Paul was silent for a moment. "Sorry, you're right. I'm not the only one in this mess," he said quietly.

"Well, will wonders never cease-the star apologizes," George muttered.

"Get stuffed, you arsehole!" Paul said angrily.

"All right," John said tiredly, "Yelling at each other isn't going to get us out of here."

George let out a growl. It reminded Paul most uncomfortably of the werewolf thing he had just seen. A terrible thought blossomed in his mind and he edged away from George.

"Who's got the light?" he asked.

"I do," George grunted. His leg itched where the creature had punctured it. Absently he lifted his pants leg and scratched at it, but had a hard time getting through all the thick fur growing over the wound.

"Could I borrow it for a sec?" Paul asked as casually as he could. In reaching out to take it, his hand brushed George's and he tried not to think that it felt unusually hairy. With a pained effort he stood up and hobbled to the window where John stood. Very faint light in the sky outside announced that dawn was on its way. Ringo was at the bedroom door, listening for sounds in the hallway.

Paul leaned close to John and whispered, "John, we've got a problem."

John snorted, "No shit, Sherlock."

"No! George!" Paul whispered urgently.

"What? Is he getting worse?"

Paul's head ached. He put a hand on the windowsill to support some of his weight. _Come on, John, get it_! he thought desperately. "Look."

He quickly flashed the light on and shone it at George. The light caught him in the eyes, which reflected red. Paul lowered the light before he turned it off and they got a glimpse of the black fur coating his face and hands.

Ringo inhaled sharply. John gasped, "Oh, shit." George let out another grunt, which was answered by the beast outside the room.

"Christ, Paul! He's turning into one!" John said.

"No shit, Sherlock!" Paul replied balefully. "Think you can say it any louder?"

"We've got to do something...now!" John ignored the jibe in his alarm. "Tie him up with something."

Paul groaned, "I can't stay standing. I've got to sit down."

John groped for him the darkness and held him under the elbow. "Here, I'll lead you back to the bed."

"Not the...!" John gave Paul's elbow a meaningful squeeze. "The sheet!" he hissed at him as he led him to sit on the side opposite of the now silent George.

Suddenly the door shook as the creature renewed its assault, battering at the door and growling. Wood splintered and the heavy dresser toppled forward as a huge hairy arm shoved it aside. Ringo jerked back from the door. "It's getting in!" he shouted above the racket.

"No shit, Sherlock," John and Paul said in unison. Paul gathered a bunch of sheet in his fist slowly, so George wouldn't feel the pull.

The werwolf thing let out an unearthly howl and the other three Beatles' blood chilled to hear George's voice rise in an answering yowl.

"Hurry, Paul!" John yelled. Paul could just make out his form by the dim light starting to filter through the window.

George started to stand. Paul lunged up with the sheet in his hands, but got tangled in it and fell to the floor, knocking the breath out of him and sending a tearing pain through his injured leg. As George strode toward Ringo, his posture was stooped and his arms unnaturally long. He reached out and grabbed Ringo before he could move.

Ringo let out a terrible shout.

"Paul!" John rushed to help Ringo but was batted effortlessly aside by the now hulking form of George, or what used to be George. The thing on the other side of the door howled again, a hungry, gleeful sound.

Paul struggled, trapped in the billowing cloud of cloth. He heard Ringo scream.

"NO!"


	12. Martha You Dope, Part 12

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather any stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will._

* * *

_**Martha You Dope, 12**_

NO!"

Paul fell heavily onto the floor, kicking and wrestling with the blankets that floated down on top of him. He awoke with a gasp and sat up. Sunlight was streaming through his bedroom window. Wildly looking around for the others, Paul saw that his dresser was back against the wall, the door had no splintered hole in it.

Heart pounding, he felt his head, then his leg. They were fine. He was whole. He'd dreamed it, the whole damn thing. Still breathing heavily, he half-laughed. God, that had been too real. He did have a headache, probably from too many drinks last night. Maybe that's where the nightmare came from too. George turning into a werewolf of all things...ridiculous. Course, he did have those rather pronounced canine teeth.

Smiling, Paul stood up, grabbing the pile of blankets pooled on the floor and was about to dump them back on the bed when he saw a figure lying there. _Oh, the bird_, he thought fleetingly before his eyes connected with his brain and told him that this thing was no woman. It was covered with long fur, had large clawed paws, and long, yellow teeth.

Paul let out a strangled yelp, his heart nearly leaping out of his chest, and he stumbled backwards over the blankets, landing on his rear.

A big sheepdog jumped up from her comfortable position on the bed and began licking him vigorously on the face.

"Augh!" Paul exclaimed rather breathlessly, "Martha, you dope!"

_**~FINIS~**_


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